


brought him the weight of the world

by ninemoons42



Category: Sān guó yǎn yì | Romance of the Three Kingdoms - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Military, Ancient China, Blind Character, Chinese Legends, Gen, Historical Fantasy, Legends, Soldiers, romance of the three kingdoms - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 02:01:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42





	brought him the weight of the world

title: brought him the weight of the world  
author: [](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**ninemoons42**](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/)  
word count: approx. 1630  
fandom: X-Men: First Class [movieverse]  
characters: Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr  
rating: PG  
notes: Written as a second submission for [](http://xmen-tales.livejournal.com/profile)[**xmen_tales**](http://xmen-tales.livejournal.com/). I blame this one on my husband, who has just been watching John Woo's two-part [Red Cliff](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Red_Cliff_\(film\)), which then made me remember watching [Three Kingdoms: Resurrection of the Dragon](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Three_Kingdoms:_Resurrection_of_the_Dragon) with him. So no wonder I've had [Romance of the Three Kingdoms](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Romance_of_the_Three_Kingdoms) on the brain.  
Charles is loosely based on Zhuge Liang (and physically, on Paul Atreides of Dune) and Erik on Liu Bei.  
Title and cut text from the poem 蜀相 （武侯祠）, "Premier of Shu (Temple of the Marquis of Wu)", by Du Fu.

  
When he wakes, he can feel the distant warmth of the winter sun on his face and on the backs of his bound hands. There are new scents and sounds all around him. Smoke and frost, the whisper of a slow-flowing river, the measured tread of men marching.

He tilts his head this way and that, and he takes in one deep breath after another. Another set of guards, and perhaps one of them is a woman, though they all seem to be carrying the same traces of mountain herb and of oxbone soup. The step on his left is much lighter and quicker in its rhythm than the step on his right; and in any case he can hear the air whistling through the teeth of the guard on the right and he's already familiar with that, because this is the guard who bound his hands in the first place.

The ground beneath his feet is rocky, and sloping gently upwards.

He very much wants to sit down, and the ache in his belly is a distant but steady pulse; still, he keeps moving forward as best as he can.

Sometimes he can use his other-sight to perceive the rocks and the obstacles on his path, and sometimes he is completely and utterly dependent on being led about by the hand.

He feels like he is in the second situation, and there are two to walk him around fallen branches and shattered stones. They do not lead him gently, but then he cannot blame them for such treatment.

He is a prisoner, after all, and he has known for a long time that this day was coming.

That at least explains the way he was dressed when they seized him. A soldier's boots. His fur-and-feather-lined cloak. An extra length of silk wrapped loosely around his throat. A plain black silk cap.

Someone calls out up ahead. The smell of soldier and of horse and of iron being forged becomes stronger, becomes almost overwhelming, and he breathes carefully through his gritted teeth.

A whistling trill, very unlike birdsong. A clash of sword against spear.

The group around him stops and he is forced to stop as well, when his left elbow is seized in a strong, small hand.

"Who's this - "

"A guest," the soldier on his right growls.

There is a brief silence, and then there's a hand pushing him forward between his shoulders and he has no choice but to keep up. The soldiers around him are moving more quickly, more confidently. Boots striking wood everywhere, and he's helped up onto a pathway and now he can hear his own footsteps as well.

Bowstrings twanging almost in unison. Horses snorting and pawing at the ground. Men and women calling to each other, here and there a brief snatch of song. The scents of a camp, a large one if the noise is any indication.

If he strains his ears he thinks he can hear the faint slap and crash of waves.

There is a great freshwater lake in the northwest of the country, and this must be where they are now.

Not so far from his own birthplace, if he thinks about it. Two or three days' ride at the most.

A place that no longer holds any true meaning for him.

They pass into a growing gradual quiet. He smells aged wood and he thinks about passing into the innermost areas of the camp, and that can really only mean one thing, since he is a prisoner and he is surrounded on all sides by his opponents.

He hears the spear before he hears the man wielding it: the quiet is so profound that he can hear the breeze coming in, hear that there are now only five soldiers around him, and that does not count the man who seems like he could still be training if the regular footfalls are any indication. Drills.

He knows one or two fighting forms himself, but they are all rather specialized for one object and for his own use, and so might be less than useless here.

Finally, the man with the spear comes to a stop and there is a soft splash of water, a long gusty exhalation, and then - a new source of heat, a new presence, coming up to him, stopping just a few feet away.

He tilts his head back and a little to the side, and he smiles as best as he can. "Hello. I presume you are the one who has, ah, sent for me."

The response to that is silence, and then a brief, gruff laugh. "I was warned about you."

"Everyone ought to be warned about me, Steel General, if only so that I will not trip over the unaware when I go walking."

"And where might a man of your abilities need to go, traveling humbly on foot like a peasant? I find that hard to believe; I have heard tell of you climbing the southern mountains to tame their dragons."

"I have not been to the south."

"Yet." The voice barks out a command, immediately after.

There is a rustling all around him, and he feels the soldiers leave.

A calloused hand takes him by the wrist, raises his hands - and when he hears the unmistakable soft note of steel being drawn, he takes a deep breath and thinks about dignity.

A sharp blade touches his sleeve - then there's a jerk on his arms and his ropes fall away.

He hisses softly as the blood flows back into his numbed fingers.

"My apologies for the rough treatment." Again that hand on his arm. "Will you do me the honor of coming in to my quarters, Sage of Cranes?"

He smiles, and allows himself to be led. "Why, I was not aware that you knew of that title."

"Because my soldiers name you demon and worse? Oh, I know of you and of your abilities. I know of the oath you swore: that you would not lead armies unless you knew that they would follow your orders alone. You are a man to be feared, and my soldiers fear you and your victories."

"And do you fear me, Steel General?"

"No."

He shakes his head. "Now, I knew that you would say that. And I have long known what I must do next, should this conversation come to pass."

They have stopped, and from the hush and the heavy air they are in the center of a structure, probably a large tent that serves for discussions of strategy and tactics among men of war.

The other man would be a fool if he were actually to invite him into his own quarters.

All reports on the Steel General agree that he is everything but a fool.

There is a faint warmth nearby, and the unmistakable crackling of a fire, constrained by hot iron - a brazier of some kind, then. It should be enough light for what he has to do.

"Step forward once," the man's voice says. "Then to the left. Now you are in the light, sparse and rude as it is. What do you need it for?"

"You need it, Steel General, because I can tell that you are looking at me, and so you need to see this."

He centers himself, takes a deep breath, and he opens his eyes.

Not that this changes anything about his sight. The world still whirls around him, flows and ripples, the twin eternal flows of energy and destiny in a thousand colors.

Eyes that he knows are blue in blue: dark blue pupils in a ring of lighter blue. Blue as the lightning that struck him and left him without his sight, left him with a way of seeing the world in a way that no one else can: the world and the future, shaped by human hands and by wind and rain and stars.

There is a quick intake of breath, and another, and the Steel General speaks again after a long, charged moment: "You are as strange and as extraordinary as the rumors say you are."

"I am who I am," he answers, "and I care not for story and for myth, only for that which needs doing."

"Which includes being willingly captured by my soldiers?"

He smiles, and closes his eyes, and faces the man who is neither friend nor foe with equanimity. "Because I know the path that lies ahead of you, Steel General, and I know what will happen if you take that path and fall short."

"I make my own way," and this time there is an ominous rumble in that voice.

"As do I. Only for now, our paths lie side by side. So will you not accept my help, which is freely given and will save your life and the lives of your men?"

"You make it sound like I don't have a choice."

He shakes his head, sharply, and he is tempted to reach for his fan. "You always have a choice, and that is true for me as well. All I offer is a choice that will allow you to keep fighting, that will take you closer to your goal."

Silence.

He knows what will happen if the Steel General accepts his help. He knows what will happen if the Steel General does not.

He does not know how the Steel General will choose.

For the first time in a long while, he holds his breath, and he waits, and the threads of the future weave and waver in his mind's eye.

Something clicks.

"Will you take tea with a humble soldier, o Sage?"

He smiles.

He can see the future clearly, now.  



End file.
